Protecting The Bad Boy

Chapter Twelve

I've been having some lil problems w Wattpad lately, from the photos getting removed to them not sending out notifications when I update! However, the photos are now sorted although I'm not sure if any of you are aware that chapter 11 (the previous chapter) is up? Go check it out just in case, otherwise this isn't going to make sense (;

Picture of Max (I didn't even realise how ironic the name was ha) on the side, puberty or actually magic? (; You decide x

Enjoy the chapter loves!

Song of the Chapter: Talking Body - Tove Lo (it's very stuck in my head)

~

Chapter Twelve: Nasty Nudes

My knuckles are turning white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.

"You fucked things u-

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

Why are his words still echoing in my brain? Why do they have so much affect on me? How did he know just how to strike the chord that cut me most?

This wasn't me, this wasn't the person I wanted or would ever be. I know I had messed everything up, I had ruined things not only for myself but others around me by of course, fucking up.

I pass my house and I'm suddenly unaware of where I'm going. Houses and old abandoned shops line the street as I drive further and further away from where I should be.

But then I start to wonder, why the hell am I running? Yes I occasionally do fuck things up, a lot, but I wasn't going to 'bail'. Despite what Houston said, I wasn't about to just run and not deal with my problems, I wasn't going to let that son of a bitch run me out of town.

Making an obvious illegal turn, I swerve the car around and begin driving back to the house to release all of my anger and thoughts out the only way I know how to; training.

-

Punch, dodge, kick.

Meet Houston, my newly renamed punching bag. After I had got inside the house, running from the car to the front door at vampire speed due to the rain, I changed into my Nike black sports bra and cropped yoga trousers.

Training in my gym was helping me a lot with the problem, the problem being Houston of course. By beating the shit out of the boxing bag, my anger was slowly diminishing by the minute.

First I had tried running, but that idea sort of failed when I found myself thinking too much and nearly flinging off the end of the machine.

When I'm punching, when I'm attacking, there is no over-thinking. You do what you need to do, and you do it as well as you can.

A layer of sweat covers my body as I continue to relentlessly pound the bag, occasionally spouting out the odd curse word.

After about an hour, I get somewhat bored and reach for my headphones, putting on an All Time Low song. I chug a mouthful of water then continue to beat the boxing bag, putting in everything I've got without so much as stopping to try and reduce the light-headed feeling that was overcoming me.

My punch throwing is interrupted when I see the door opening behind me in the reflection of the mirror that covers the wall in front of me. Houston walks in, his clothes soaked through and his beanie-free hair dripping wet, literally.

His face is a storm, his eyes as dark as I've ever seen them. His gaze is fixed on mine, his mouth defined and his fists clenched.

I slowly remove my headphones from my ears, still panting from the intense exercise, my breathing heavy. In fact, it's the only sound filling the large room.